Open Eyes
by Mi-chan17
Summary: How Scott went from All Star track to the Mutant Death Wonder, how he met Xavier, met Jean Grey, and how he became the mutant known as Cyclops. PreX1
1. Prologue

Prologue

Scott took a small sip from the paper cup in his hand. It had, he recognized, more kick than fruit punch was supposed to. But such was life. So someone spiked the punch. It was senior prom, how could anyone expect the drinks to _not_ be spiked?

Selena was mad, he knew. Her demeanor had changed since they'd gotten there. Or, rather, since he'd been "caught" hugging Hayley. He hadn't been doing anything wrong. At least, he didn't think so. They'd been hugging, who cared? But Selena had flounced off jealously and, to Scott at least, obnoxiously, to the women's restroom. It was exceedingly frustrating. Why did she always just assume he was cheating on her? It pissed him off.

Frowning, Scott headed into the restroom to chill himself out. He didn't want to let Selena's drama – queen issues ruin his senior prom. He got into the small, tiled room and turned the faucet on. The argument with his date had given Scott the mother of all migraines. He splashed some cold water on his face and was wiping it off when his friend Mike found him in there.

"Dude, Scott, I saw what happened? What is her deal, man?"

Scott turned and shrugged.

"I don't know," he replied, sounding frustrated. "I mean, I was just hugging her. She's my friend, why shouldn't I?" Scott ran a hand through his carefully arranged hair.

"Selena's the possessive type, I guess," Mike assessed, nodding seriously. He looked up at Scott. "Dude, are you okay?"

Scott was a little pale. His head was still pounding. Even worse than it had been seconds earlier. He closed his eyes, which felt like they were…burning?

"Scott?"

Scott opened his eyes and looked over at Mike, who now staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

"Dude…your eyes…they're red. Not just the white part, man, they're _all_ red."

Confused, and a little nauseas now, Scott turned to look at the mirror. His eyes _were _red and his pupils were gone. Scott closed his eyes and shook his head a little, willing his eyes to return to normal. When he opened his eyes again, not only was everything red, but also the wall he was looking at was…gone? Cement and brick was blasting outward from the wall. Suddenly Scott realized that the red was coming from him. His eyes. And they were blowing apart everything he looked at. The wall burst forward as did the one behind it, and the one behind that.

And People were screaming.

Scott clenched his eyes shut and felt his way through the rubble. Then he ran.

In retrospect he didn't know how he'd managed it, but he Scott found himself in the guy's locker room. People were still yelling, he could hear them clearly from where he stood. Scott fumbled around blindly until he found the end of the third row, his locker. He pulled his keys from his pocket.

He was still panicked, his heart pounding heavily in his chest, but Scott had realized something in the few moments since he'd blasted out the bathroom. He had to leave, quickly. He had to get the hell out of Dodge.

As the key slid into the lock and turned, Scott felt it click open and he pulled his gym clothes out. Blue, mesh shorts and a white t-shirt. Scott hurriedly pulled his tux off, his eyes shut the whole time, and pulled on the casual clothes. He shoved the formal wear into the locker and, after pulling his backpack out of it, shut the door.

He had a backpack, his wallet, with his credit card and fifty dollars cash, and some clothes.

And he had to leave.

Scott, forgetting himself for a moment, opened his eyes to look for a door. As the wall blasted away, and the need for a door disappeared, Scott slammed his eyes shut. He again stepped through the rubble he caused, and out into the cold night. He paused a moment, to get his bearings and to pull his sweatshirt out of his backpack. It was his lucky one. Then he pulled out a roll of duct tape, still in there after its use in the senior prank. Scott ripped a large chunk off and placed it over his eyes. He hated how it felt, but it would have to stay.

Scott futilely tried to calm himself down so he could visualize where he was. He knew he was on the basketball courts; the bus stop would be west and about a block away.

Zipping his backpack and pulling it on, Scott ran.


	2. Omaha

Open Eyes

Chapter 1

Omaha

It had been a month, Scott mused. One full month since he'd seen anything at all. He hated it - the impenetrable darkness of his own eyelids. And that was completely ignoring the constant pressure on his eyelids and the intense migraines his curse caused.

The good news, Scott figured, was that he wasn't dead - it was better than he had thought he'd be. But, he supposed, that was why he'd taken the effort to get to where he was. The one place he knew well.

Omaha, Nebraska.

The last place Scott had lived with his parents before the accident, and the place he'd spent the longest time in. It had taken him twenty dollars, and multiple bus rides, but he'd made it. And a good thing too, Scott thought. Omaha was the only city big enough to have comfortable anonymity and yet small enough that he, as a blind kid, hadn't been shot yet.

Unfortunately, with his taped shut eyes, Scott had been reduced to begging. He hated it. Hated being dependent on others and on their pity. But what choice did he have? To open his eyes and look for a "Help Wanted" sign? Yeah, that would go well.

So, here he was, on a street corner, a Styrofoam cup in hand. It was fairly heavy, considering that he was a kid blinded to the point he couldn't even write some kind of heart-wrenching sign or something. He depended entirely on the goodwill of the people of Omaha.

Little did the blind Summers know, he was being watched - intently. This was the boy who blew up a wall with a look. The watcher wanted him.

And Jack Winters always got what he wanted.

--------------------

Far away, in sunny Westchester, New York, another man had his sights on the young Scott. His telepathic sights, that was. Professor Charles Xavier pulled his Cerebro helmet off his head. He had found him - the boy from the Inquirer story on alien hybrids. The boy who had blown down a wall with his eyes, leaving only concrete dust behind. Charles felt his heart go out to the young man on a street corner. His power appeared to be extremely destructive, and it was not a type of mutation that Xavier was really familiar with. He, and his first student Jean, had psi-talents. His second student, and his oldest one, Henry, had a physical mutation. This boy had neither - and it appeared that this was a mutation that desperately needed to be controlled.

Henry, Xavier called telepathically.

Yes, Professor?

I need you to ready the lear. We need to go to Omaha.

Downstairs in the lab, where he spent most of his time, Hank McCoy blinked in incomprehension. Omaha? What on Earth could they possibly need in Omaha? But he did as the professor had asked, heading into the hanger of the sub-basement and preparing the professor's private Lear jet. He was joined by Professor Xavier and his fellow student, Jean Grey, ten minutes later. All three of them boarded the plane and Henry took the controls.

"Why're we going to Omaha?" Jean asked from her seat as they took off.

"There's a mutant there," Xavier replied in his soft British accent. "A boy who, if Cerebro gave good indication, will need our help with his gift."

----------------------

It was raining. Scott pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up and over himself in a pathetic attempt to avoid getting wet. Standing, he wandered slowly (so as not to trip and fall into the street) up the street, hoping to find an overhang of some kind. Something to keep himself dry.

Suddenly, Scott heard something. His hearing had grown more sensitive since he'd first become "blind". There were footsteps, behind him, moving fast towards him. Scott began to run. He wasn't sure who'd be running after him, but he figured that he probably didn't want to find out - given that he was positive that after the prom incident the police and FBI were after him.

Why are you running?

Though his legs kept moving, Scott suddenly had to ponder where that had come from. It was in his head, he knew, he could feel it there...but it wasn't him.

Why not stop running and let us talk to you?

CRASH! White, hot pain, searing up his ankle - Scott had crashed into something. He stumbled to his feet anyway, though - determined that, whatever this crazy voice in his head was, he would not let it catch up to him. Scott started to run again, a bit slower, much to his chagrin, due to his fall. Running and running and running until...

BAM! Another crash - this one, it appeared, with a human being.

Jean Grey blinked in shock. She'd been standing at the corner opposite of Hank, like the professor had told her to, when this boy had run into her. And was now, it seemed, lying on top of her. "Jesus," Jean thought to herself, looking at the boy's duct-tape covered face, "boys shouldn't be allowed to be so pretty."

"Sorry," Duct-tape boy breathed as he tried to lift himself off of her. His movements were fluid until he put weight on his left ankle, when he stumbled slightly. He was injured. He looked ready to bolt, and Jean opened her mouth to warn him of the fact he was on a corner, and facing traffic, when she saw him pause, cock his head for a moment, and then turn right and begin to run.

Jean simply watched in surprise. Moments later what he'd been running from became apparent. Hank McCoy was tearing down the sidewalk after him. Jean caught her classmateÕs arm as he ran by.

"That's him?" She asked.

Hank nodded the affirmative. He moved to chase the boy again, but Jean held him fast with both her hands and her telekinesis.

"Stop," she told him. "You're making him panic. He's hurt himself, but you've got him so scared he kept running anyway. We should let him calm down - he won't listen to us if hes hysterical anyway." Hank had listened, and slowly nodded in agreement with her assessment. Jean relayed the conversation to her mentor telepathically before she and Hank headed down the street, in the direction the mutant boy had run to wait.

Fifteen minutes later Scott stopped running, and as the adrenaline left his body he could feel the pain in his ankle increasing tenfold.

"Fucking hell," he groaned softly, sitting against a wall behind him and grabbing his left ankle. It felt like somebody was stabbing him there.

"Are you okay?"

Scott tensed almost immediately, ready to jump up and bolt. This feminine voice was not one he was familiar with. "What's it to you?" He asked abruptly, trying to stand.

"I'm a medical student, I saw you running...or, I guess you ran into me...and I noticed your limp. Do you want me to wrap it?"

The voice was coming closer and Scott cowered back against the wall. There was no clear route to escape now, she was too close.

"Leave me alone," Scott said, voice low but laced with steel. It was an order and a warning.

"Look...I don't want to hurt you, okay?" The voice swore, sounding nervous. So he'd made her nervous. Good. "I just want to wrap your ankle, you might have broken it or something. I just want to help people."

Scott was still suspicious of her motives, but extended his leg out so she could look at his ankle. Being afraid of him after he'd spoken only one sentence, and not even a very threatening one at that, made him fairly sure she wouldn't attack him. At least, not immediately. Scott felt warm, soft hands slide onto the skin of his ankle as the girl investigated his injury.

"A bad sprain,Ó"she told him a few minutes later. "Do you have an ace wrap in your backpack?" She was referring to the pack he'd taken with him everywhere since leaving San Diego.

"Are you kidding?" Scott snorted. He heard some clothes rustle, as though the girl were shrugging. After a moment of silence the female voice said,

"I'll go to the drug store and get one. Stay here, and stay off that ankle."

Scott rolled his eyes, but did as instructed. He was in no hurry to go anywhere anyway, and even if he was it'd be hard to make it there. Fifteen minutes later, the light footsteps came back.

"Okay," the girl said, "hold still." Scott felt her soft grip on his leg again as she began to tightly blind his injured joint. It hurt, badly, and Scott couldn't help it as he took a sharp breath at the pain.

"Hey," his 'doctor' asked, "what's your name?"

"Would you believe me if I said Tom Cruise?" Scott responded dryly.

"Only if you believed I was Nicole Kidman,"the voice retorted. There was silence again for a few moments, then, "My name is Jean."

"Okay," Scott replied.

"And yours is..." Jean prompted leadingly.

"Not your business," Scott told her sharply. He heard her take a breath, as though she was surprised by how rude he was. He didn't really care. They didn't talk anymore as Jean finished up with his ankle.

"Thanks," Scott grunted. He waited to hear her foot steps leave again, as they had when she'd gone for the ace bandage. But they didn't. She hadn't left. Scott felt himself growing uncomfortable as she just stood there. "What?" He demanded sharply.

"You don't have to go it alone, you know," Jean said. Scott got the feeling that, if he could see her eyes, she'd be looking directly at him. "People could help you."

"Help me what!" Scott asked harshly.

"Help you get the duct tape off."

Scott was stunned. What did she know about his tape, or rather, the eyes that hid beneath it?

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He was tensed up, ready to stand and bolt again at any sign of trouble.

"It means that I know you're a mutant, and that I know that we can help you."

"Who the fuck is we?" Scott was starting to get to his feet again, not wanting to be the subject of some sort of ambush.

"There's a school, for people like us. For mutants that need help controlling their gifts." Jean explained enigmatically.

"Gift!" Scott spat. "Well you found the wrong freak. I don't have a gift, I have a fucking death curse!"

"Let us help you control it." The girl, Jean, pleaded. "Let us help you!"

"You can't!"

"Let us try! What? You want to take the chance of hurting someone?Ó"She demanded, sounding as though she was becoming frustrated. And that question froze him. He'd wondered, ever since the accident, what had happened to the other people in that bathroom. How many could have been hit by the flying chunks of concrete wall? If they were dead...Scott shook his head to get rid of the mental imagery.

"Fine." He grunted.

"What?"

"Take me to this damn school. But the moment I get wind of anything funny...I'm getting the hell out of there." Scott repeated.

Jean sighed with relief. "You won't regret this," she promised.


End file.
